Exam Room One
by hughville
Summary: An AU House fic in which House never met Stacy. He married Jeanna and she made the decisions concerning his leg. This takesplace during the events near the beginning of Season 3.


"So, like, I get this numbness in my legs and feet sometimes. It is, like, so weird, you know? And, like, it's not all the time. Just, like, this random numbness."

Doctor Greg House rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. The pain in his leg increased exponentially with every word this girl said. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Vicodin. He gently shook the bottle, popped the top off and dropped a pill out into the palm of his hand. Titling his head back, he tossed the pill into his mouth and swallowed.

He squinted at the girl sitting on the examination table. Glancing down at her file, he saw that her name was Harmony. Harmony was nineteen years old and a sophomore at Princeton. He tilted his head and squinted harder at her.

"So, could the numbness be caused by, like, diabetes? Cause I live on candy, and it would be, like, so hard to give it up."

"You don't have diabetes," he told her.

"Then, like, what is wrong with me?"

He stood up with difficulty, grabbed his cane, tucked her file under his arm and limped toward the door. Hand on the handle, he turned to her. "Those jeans you're wearing are too tight. The blood flow to your legs and feet is being cut off. Lack of blood causes the numbness. Either buy a pair of jeans that fit you or cut back on the candy. Either way, quit trying to squeeze your size 6 ass into size 2 jeans."

Opening the door, he made his way to the reception desk situated at the entrance to the clinic. The clinic was crowded, as usual. The free clinic at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was always crowded. Crowded with idiots and morons whose sole purpose in life was to make House as miserable as possible.

He tossed Harmony's file onto the counter and pulled another from the stand. Leaning heavily on his cane, he walked to the waiting area of the clinic. Peering at the name in the file, he called out for the next patient.

"Larry Bodeski."

An overweight, middle aged man wearing a flannel jacket, jeans, and trucker's hat stood and followed House into Exam Room One.

House hooked his cane on his arm and sat on the small steel stool in front of the examination table. Flipping open the file, he dropped his head in resignation.

He looked up at Larry and sighed. _Crotch rot_, he thought. _I hate crotch rot_.

"It says here that it burns when you pee."

"Yeah," Larry responded. He leaned forward. House sighed again. "And sometimes, there's blood in it."

House suppressed a groan. "Drop your pants."

Larry stood and unzipped his jeans. House pulled a swab from the cart next to him. He couldn't hide his distaste as he took the sample he needed.

"It's my prostate, isn't it? I have prostate cancer."

"Nope. You have an STD. Next time you and Betty Lou go at it, use a condom."

House dropped the swab into its container and stood up. Larry stared at House in shock. House grabbed the file and exited the room.

He stood at the reception desk and eyed Nurse Brenda or as he thought of her, Nurse Bitch. Dropping the container with the swab on the counter, he told her, "Sign me out. I'm going up to my office."

Nurse Brenda turned a glacial stare on him. "Dr. Cuddy said you have to stay all day."

Leaning across the desk, he glared at her. "I'm taking a break."

She gave him a final look of loathing and turned away.

House rested his hand on the handle of his office door. The pain in his leg radiated up his thigh into his hip and down into his foot. Pushing his door open, he made his way to the desk. He sat down slowly in his chair and rubbed his leg. It was too soon to take another pill. He reached out and picked up his headphones. Standing, he pushed his chair back and slowly lowered himself to the floor. He slipped the headphones on and used the end of his cane to press the 'play' button on his stereo. A long sigh escaped him. The music washed over him, helping to take his mind off the pain. His eyes drifted shut and he began to relax. Soon, he was asleep.

Doctor Lisa Cuddy closed the door to Exam Room One. House was nowhere to be found. As usual. Sighing, she strode to the reception desk.

"Where's House?" she asked Brenda.

Brenda looked up at Cuddy and snorted. "He said he was taking a break. He left an hour ago."

Cuddy sighed. "Thanks."

The main lobby was fairly quiet. Cuddy noticed Doctor Eric Foreman and Doctor Robert Chase talking to a nurse near the main reception area. Chase and Foreman formed two-thirds of House's diagnostic team. Doctor Allison Cameron completed the team.

"Where's House?" Cuddy called out to them as she made her way to the elevator.

Foreman gave her a quizzical look. "He's working in the clinic today."

Chase laughed and turned away.

Cuddy stopped and pivoted on her heel. She marched up to Chase and pulled him to face her. "Dr. Chase, do you know where Dr. House is?" She raised her eyebrows and folded her arms.

Inclining his head toward the elevators, Chase looked down at the floor. "He's in his office."

Cuddy tapped her foot.

"Sleeping," Chase finished.

Cuddy sighed in exasperation. "Well, then you can cover for him in the clinic until he finishes his nap," she informed him.

Chase gasped. "But-"

"Go."

Without looking to see if he did as she ordered, Cuddy turned and resumed her trek to the elevators. Her anger grew as she rode up to the floor that housed the Diagnostic Department.

Cuddy paused outside House's office door, hand on the handle. She could see him stretched out on the floor, asleep. His right hand rested on his right thigh. His left hand lay across his chest. She could see that he had fallen asleep listening to music. She sighed and her expression softened as she looked at him.

_He's having a bad pain day_, she thought. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open and walked quietly into his office. Sunlight filtered in through the windows. Stopping beside him, she looked down at him. He always looked so vulnerable when he slept. Unfortunately, Cuddy had seen him sleeping too often.

Crouching down beside him, she reached out and gently touched his shoulder. She noticed that his shirt was wrinkled and he needed to brush his hair. As usual.

"House," she called softly. She didn't want to startle him. An involuntary jerk would cause him more pain. She didn't like to add to his physical pain. She did want him to do his job, though, and he couldn't do it sleeping.

"House," she called again, a little more loudly, pulling the headphones away from his ears.

With a sharp intake of breath, House opened his eyes. Turning his head, he blinked sleepily at her. He rubbed his hand over his face.

"What do you want?" he asked hoarsely.

"You're supposed to be working in the clinic today."

"I'm taking a break."

"Breaks are supposed to last fifteen minutes, not an hour," she informed him, rising to put the headphones away. She picked up his cane and held it out to him.

She watched as he rose from the floor. It was obvious that he was in pain, but she knew he would refuse any help she offered.

Sliding his hand into the pocket of his jeans, he pulled out the pill bottle containing his Vicodin. He shook the bottle before popping the top off. She often wondered about that small ritual, but never asked. He tilted his head back and swallowed the pill. She often wondered about that, too. His would eventually burn a hole in his esophagus swallowing his pills that way.

Grabbing his cane from her grasp, he slid the bottle back into his pocket.

"My leg hurts," he told her, quietly.

Cuddy felt guilt close in on her. Several months earlier, House had been shot by an irate former patient. Cuddy ordered a ketamine treatment during his surgery which eliminated the pain in his leg. He spent several weeks walking without the cane. Recently, due to a choice she and Doctor James Wilson, House's best friend, made, House was in pain again and walking with the aid of his cane. Swallowing hard, she looked at him. She wanted to reach out to him; comfort him. Instead she folded her arms and pushed down the guilt she was feeling.

"Clinic. Now."

House stared at her, his blue gaze intense. Slowly, he turned on his heel and limped toward the door.

She waited for him to turn and sling an insult at her. He pushed open the door and disappeared down the corridor.

Walking slowly across the office, she followed him. He stood at the end of the corridor, waiting for the elevator. The doors slid open and he entered. He pressed a button with his cane. Turning, he rested both hands on his cane, staring at the floor.

The clinic was still crowded when he returned. Pulling a file from the stack on the counter, he opened it and looked at the name. He hung his head and sighed.

"Rainbow Johnson," he called. A teenager rose from one of the chairs and walked toward him. She was dressed in black from head to toe. Blonde roots showed above hair the color of coal. Black eyeliner ringed her eyes and black lipstick stood out in stark contrast against her unnaturally pale skin.

House led her to the exam room. As the door swung open, the first thing he noticed were long, slender legs. He stopped suddenly and Rainbow bumped into him causing him to drop her file. The woman seated on the exam table tilted her head and looked at him. Long black hair slid over her shoulder and light grey eyes coolly surveyed him.

"I hear you've been dodging clinic duty," she remarked. "Again."

Turning to the girl behind him, House said, "Go back to the waiting area. Someone will be with you in a minute."

The girl regarded him through narrowed eyes before turning on her heel and stalking away.

Closing the door, House asked, "Who ratted me out?"

Sliding from the table, she moved toward him. "Lisa did. She was looking for you. You told Brenda you were taking a break. You've been gone for over an hour."

Blue eyes met grey. He smiled. "Cuddy tattled on me?"

A slow smile spread across her face. Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. "I think she was worried about you."

"More likely she was mad and ran to tell Mommy."

She gave a soft snort of laughter. "So, I'm Mommy now, am I?"

He ran his finger over the lapel of her lab coat. "Mommy, naughty school girl, kinky nurse. I'm flexible."

"Why did you leave?" she asked.

He sighed and made his way over to the stool in the corner. Sitting, he stretched out his right leg. "My leg hurts."

"Your leg always hurts," she told him. Walking toward him, she leaned over him, resting her hands on his thighs. "That's why you take so much Vicodin."

Hooking his finger in the top of her dress, he pulled her closer. "There are other ways to help me manage my pain, you know."

"Yes, I know," she whispered, her mouth inches from his. His eyes drifted closed. "You could try physical therapy," she breathed against his mouth.

"Is that a new euphemism for sex?" he asked hopefully.

Pulling back, she laughed. "You wish. PT would do you good, you know."

His hand snaked out and he grabbed her arm. "So would sex."

Before she could answer, the door swung open and Nurse Brenda stood looking at them. "Dr. House?" she asked.

The woman turned to Brenda. "Yes, Brenda?" She responded.

"Dr. Cuddy wanted to know if you found the other Dr. House."

"As you can see, I found him. Tell her I will personally see to it that he finishes his clinic duty."

Brenda nodded and closed the door.

"So, now you have to babysit me," he told her.

"All Lisa wants you to do is fulfill your obligations to the hospital."

"Clinic duty is boring," he told her.

Moving to stand between his legs, she leaned against him, her hands resting on his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around her.

"Why do you fight her all the time?" she asked.

"Clinic duty is boring," he repeated.

"You sound like a six year old who doesn't want to do his homework."

He sighed again. "Go talk to Cuddy. She listens to you. You can get me out of this."

"I tried. She said no."

The door swung open again and Wilson stopped short at the sight of them. "Sorry," he told them. He started to turn away but turned back.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"Kind of busy here," House told him. "Trying to grope my wife."

"Actually, she's the one I need to talk to," Wilson responded.

She sighed and bent to pick up the file House had dropped on the floor when he entered. "I'll send," she looked at the name in the file and suppressed a laugh, "Rainbow back in." She tossed the file to her husband.

Following Wilson out of the room, she stopped to call Rainbow and direct her to the exam room where House waited.

"My office," Wilson told her.

Silently, she followed him upstairs to his office. He opened the door and stood back to let her enter. Indicating a chair, he moved to sit behind his desk.

"I'm worried about House," he told her. He moved some files around on his desk, refusing to meet her eyes.

"What have you done, Wilson?" she asked. Folding her arms, she sat back in the chair and regarded him through narrowed eyes.

"I'm just concerned about him. He's back on the Vicodin and using his cane again. That means the ketamine treatment didn't work. I'm just wondering if he said anything to you or if you've noticed any changes."

He looked up and met her eyes. "What did you do, Wilson?" she asked again, slowly.

"Jeanna," he began, "I just want to make sure he's okay."

"What did you do?"

"You're as suspicious as House."

"Apparently with good reason," Jeanna House told him. "I'm going to ask you one last time: What did you do to my husband?"

Wilson stared at her. He had known her a long time. He'd been with House when she appeared in House's office all those years ago. House had needed a consult on a patient with a heart problem. The other cardiologists in Jeanna's department refused to meet with him. Being the newest cardiologist on staff, Jeanna was ordered to do the consult. Wilson knew House had been taken with her the moment she walked through the door. House insulted Jeanna and she responded in kind. They eloped three weeks later. That had been nearly ten years ago. Three years into their marriage, House developed an infarction in his leg. Wilson remembered how Jeanna stood behind House's decision not to have his leg amputated. She suggested the treatment which left him with a permanent limp and constant pain. Wilson knew she felt tremendous guilt about that decision. House had tried to push her out of his life, but she refused to leave. Wilson knew House punished her in subtle ways every day. He also knew how much House loved her and how much Jeanna loved House.

"I'm just want to make sure he's okay," Wilson repeated.

She laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, he's fantastic," she told him, sarcasm sharpening her voice. "Everything is fantastic."

Wilson nodded. "I'm sorry," he told her.

She stood and walked to the door. Turning back, she looked at him. "I've heard a rumor about you," she remarked.

He looked at the files on his desk again. "Really?"

"About you and that new internist, Amber Volakis. Better hope Lisa doesn't hear that rumor."

"There's nothing to hear," he informed her. "I was talking to Dr. Volakis. I told her how to get to the cafeteria."

"Lisa will make your life a living hell if you cheat on her," Jeanna informed him.

"I'm not cheating on her. Why would I cheat on my wife?"

"Because you're an idiot?" She asked. "Because you cheated on the first two?"

Wilson laughed. "You've been spending too much time around House."

Opening the door, she started to leave.

"Hey," he called out. "You'd tell me, right? If he's gotten worse? If things are worse?"

She turned her head to look at the name plaque on his door. Dropping her head slightly, she sighed. "He's just the same as he was before he was shot. Don't worry, whatever you did didn't affect him too much."

Wilson closed his eyes and winced. He heard the door close and he reached for his phone. He stared at the receiver for several seconds before replacing it and rising. This was something he needed to do in person.

Cuddy looked up from her computer when Wilson entered her office. He stopped in front of her desk, hands resting on his hips.

"I think we made a mistake," he informed her.

She knew what he was referring to, but feigned ignorance. "About what?"

"House's brain cancer patient," he told her impatiently. "The one you gave the injection of cortisol to."

"You wanted him to learn humility," she reminded him.

"We both wanted that. We just forgot about Jeanna."

Cuddy looked at him with concern. "Why? What did he do?"

"House hasn't done anything to her. Yet. We did. We gave her hope and then took it away."

"Did she say something to you?"

"Of course not," Wilson snapped. "You know her, she never complains about him."

Cuddy sighed and turned her attention back to her computer screen. "What do you want me to do?"

"I think we should tell him that his diagnosis was correct."

Cuddy shook her head. "It's too late. Cameron already knows. She's probably told him."

"How did Cameron find out?" Wilson shouted.

"Lower your voice," she commanded. "The patient came to the clinic and she saw him."

"He'll make Jeanna's life miserable."

"Why?" Cuddy demanded. "She had nothing to do with this."

"It doesn't matter," Wilson informed her sadly.

House stood at the white board in his office staring at the list of symptoms. Tapping his cane against this chin, he tilted his head. He moved over to the desk, lifted the phone receiver and tapped out some numbers. He waited and placed the receiver back in its cradle.

"That's the tenth time you've paged her," Foreman commented. "She's gonna be mad."

"What?" House asked in feigned shock. "Never."

Foreman shook his head in disgust.

Chase and Cameron pretended to be engrossed in the patient's files.

The door to House's office opened and Jeanna strode in. She wore scrubs and looked exasperated.

"You paged me?" she gritted between clenched teeth.

House glanced at her over his shoulder. "Need a consult," he told her. He turned his attention back to the board.

"Of course you do," she told him, folding her arms.

"Patient came in complaining of tightness in the chest. I'm thinking it might be his heart."

Jeanna sighed and sat down at the conference table. Pulling a file toward her, she began reading. "He's seventeen. What makes you think he has a problem with his heart?"

"Did I mention the tightness in his chest?" House asked, coming to stand behind her. He rested his hands on her shoulders.

Foreman glanced at Jeanna and House. House's fingers rested against the base of Jeanna's throat, stroking lightly. Jeanna sat stiffly, reading over the file.

"Fine, I'll do an echo," Jeanna said.

"Great. I'll introduce you to him. You'll like him. He's nice."

Foreman watched as Jeanna closed her eyes. "I'll do the echo," Foeman announced.

"Jeanna will do it," House told him. "She just said she would."

"It's fine, Foreman. I'm glad to help out," she assured him. Rising, she faced House. She was tall; nearly as tall as House. Placing her hands on her hips, she said, "Come on, then. Take me to your patient."

House moved to the door. He opened it and stood to one side allowing Jeanna to exit. Foreman watched them walk toward the elevators. House pushed the button with his cane and turned to look at his wife. She stood beside him, head bowed. House said something to her that Foreman couldn't hear. Her head jerked toward House. The doors slid open and she stalked into the elevator. House entered more slowly. Foreman could see that Jeanna's face was set in anger. He wondered what House had said to her this time.

Jeanna threw her bag and House's backpack onto the couch.

"Ten times!" she raged. "You paged me ten times in less than ten minutes!"

"I needed a consult," House answered calmly. He tossed the mail he was carrying on to the desk next to the front door.

"I was in the middle of a triple bypass and you paged me with a 911 ten TIMES!"

House regarded her. Pulling his pill bottle out of his pocket, he shook it. He noticed Jeanna staring at the bottle of Vicodin. Popping the lid off, he shook a pill into his hand. Tossing the pill into the air, he caught it in his mouth and swallowed it.

"I thought something was wrong with you!" she yelled.

"What would make you think that?" he asked her, moving past her to sit on the couch.

"You put 911 in all TEN of your pages!"

"Really needed the consult."

He could hear her breathing. He knew she was angry. He closed his eyes briefly. Opening them, he leaned forward and picked up the television remote. He listened as she walked down the hallway and slammed the bathroom door. A few minutes later, he heard the shower running. He tossed the remote back onto the coffee table and leaned backed against the couch. Massaging his leg, he closed his eyes. He knew when he began paging her that she was in the middle of that surgery. He knew she would have to contact another surgeon to finish it for her. He knew she would think something was wrong with him. Yet, he did it anyway. He paged her ten times. He punched in 911 each time he did. He felt a jolt of guilt each time he did it. Yet, he did it anyway. Wilson was always prattling on about House punishing Jeanna. He rubbed his leg. Maybe he did. But why? House rubbed his hand across his forehead and sighed. He rubbed his leg again, trying to rub away the pain that radiated up his thigh and down into his foot. The pain that never left, even while he slept. The pain that dogged every step he took. The pain that reminded him of the choice she made. A choice that left him crippled. Less than a man. Less than he was. He jerked slightly when her hand brushed against his, pushing it aside. He felt her fingers dig lightly into the cramped muscle, rubbing away some of the tension. A sigh slipped from him. This was one of the few times the pain lessened; became somewhat bearable. He often thought her hands were a good distraction. He could concentrate on the feel of her instead of the pain.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She sat on the coffee table, facing him. He could see that she had been crying.

"So am I," she responded. He knew that apology covered so much. It always did. He knew she felt guilty. He played on that guilt often enough. Exploited it; used it against her; used it to get the things he wanted.

He pulled her onto the couch. He wanted to say more, but couldn't. He didn't know how to tell her that he wanted to forgive her, but couldn't. Instead he held her and stroked her hair.

Hours later, he awoke. Pain stabbed up his leg. The apartment was quiet. Reaching up, he turned on the light beside the bed. Jeanna was sleeping. House grabbed his Vicodin and lightly shook the bottle. He would need to refill it soon. Slowly, he opened the bottle and dropped a pill into his hand. That movement caused the pain in his leg to amplify. He gasped at the intensity of it. Beside him, Jeanna shifted in her sleep. Her leg connected with his. Pain arced through him. He cried out.

"Greg?" Jeanna questioned, sleepily. "What's wrong."

"My leg," he gasped. He'd learned there was no point in trying to hide the pain from her.

Sitting up, she pushed the blankets back. She stumbled out of the room and disappeared down the hall. She returned with a small tan box. Opening it, she removed a tourniquet. She tied the tourniquet around his arm and pulled a syringe and bottle out next. Pulling the top off the syringe, she inserted the needle into the bottle and measured out a dose. She placed the bottle back into the box and pulled out an alcohol swab. She cleaned a spot on the inside of his elbow and inserted the needle. His breath came in short gasps and sweat broke out on his forehead.

Pulling the tourniquet from his arm, she tossed it into the box. Carefully, she placed the used syringe on her bedside table. She snapped the lid of the box shut and sat back on her heels.

He leaned back against the pillows, feeling the morphine take the edge off the pain.

"Better?" she asked. He could see the concern and pain in her eyes.

"Wilson says I punish you," he rasped.

"I know."

"I do."

"I know."

"Why do you stay?" he asked, half afraid of what she would answer.

She shrugged. "I love you."

"And you feel guilty." Why was he doing this? he wondered. Why pick at the wound?

"I love you," she repeated, firmly.

He stared at her intently. She looked away.

"Why?" he asked.

"I'm not having this discussion with you. It's four a.m. Go back to sleep," she told him. She lay back down, pulling the blankets around her.

"I want to know," he replied.

"Go to sleep, Greg."

He lay against the pillows and stared at the ceiling. Why was he asking her these questions? Why did he keep doing things designed to push her farther and farther away? Did he want her to leave? He knew she was miserable. He was miserable. That was something he would never admit to anyone. Turning his head, he looked at her. She lay on her side, facing the opposite wall. Reaching out, he lightly touched her hair. She turned to look at him. In the dim light from the lamp, her eyes appeared silver. That was the first thing he'd noticed about her. Her eyes.

"I want to know why you stay," he told her.

She closed her eyes. "Of course you do."

He opened his mouth to question her again, but the sound of the phone ringing stopped him.

Jeanna picked up the phone and answered. She listened, answered briefly and then clicked it off. Pushing back the blankets, she rose and walked around to his side of the bed. She handed him his cane and helped him swing his legs over the edge of the bed.

"It's your patient. He went into cardiac arrest," she informed him. "I'll drive."

The hospital lobby was deserted when they arrived. Jeanna held House's arm as they walked in. The morphine made him unsteady.

Cameron stood by the elevators, arms crossed. "We managed to get his heart started again, but Chase had to insert a pacing wire," she told them.

House nodded. "So, we were wrong. Take Jeanna and do an angiogram."

"He just had a heart attack," Cameron protested.

"That's why I said to take Jeanna. She won't kill the patient."

Cameron stared at him, brows drawn together. Jeanna sighed and pushed the elevator button. Guiding House into the elevator, she smiled at Cameron.

"I'll meet you in the cath lab," Jeanna told her.

The cath lab was quiet. Cameron watched as Jeanna inserted the wire into the patient's femoral artery. She turned her attention to the monitor and watched as it moved through the artery toward his heart.

"I have to tell you something," Cameron said quietly.

Jeanna squinted at the monitor. "Okay."

"Wilson and Cuddy are keeping something from you and House."

"That doesn't surprise me," Jeanna laughed.

"I think you should know that House was right."

"House is always right, Allie," Jeanna told her. "Well, nearly always."

"No," Cameron told her. "He was right then, too."

Jeanna looked at her. She knew what Cameron was referring to. House's patient with brain cancer who drove his wheelchair into a pool. House diagnosed him with hypothalmicdisregulation and wanted to give the patient cortisol. Cuddy refused; accused him of acting without medical facts. As a result, House's pain returned and he sank into a deeper depression.

"Cuddy gave the patient the cortisol," Cameron continued. "I saw him in the clinic. He asked me to prescribe him Viagra."

Jeanna laughed again. "And Wilson and Lisa wanted to teach Greg a lesson. Figures."

Cameron stared at her friend in surprise. "You're not angry?"

"I thought something was wrong. Lisa has been avoiding me and Wilson keeps asking me if Greg is okay."

"I'm angry," Cameron told her. "They had no right to do that to him. He's in pain again, doubting himself. They had no right to keep that from him."

Jeanna didn't respond. Cameron looked at her.

"What's wrong?" Cameron asked. She turned to look at the monitor. "Oh, God," she gasped.

"That is not good," Jeanna told her.

House was sleeping in the chair in his office, his feet propped up on the foot stool.

"I'll get consent from the parents," Cameron whispered.

Jeanna nodded. She knelt beside the chair and gently touched House's arm.

"Greg?" she called softly, stroking his arm. "Wake up."

She was always amazed at how blue his eyes were. He focused on her and blinked.

"God, you're beautiful," he told her, sleep roughening his voice.

She smiled and stroked his cheek. "Allie and I did the angiogram."

"And what did you and _Allie_ find?" he questioned, mockingly.

"He has a ninety percent blockage. She's getting consent for surgery. He'll need a stent to open the blocked artery." She purposely ignored his jibe of her nickname for Cameron.

Sitting up, he stared at a point over her shoulder, his eyes unfocused. "What causes a seventeen year old boy to have heart blockage?" he asked.

She knew he didn't expect an answer, so she remained silent. She reviewed the symptoms in her head. Difficulty breathing, fatigue, swelling in his legs and feet, angina, and now what appeared to be a heart blockage.

"It's amyloid cardiopathy," she said. "All the symptoms fit. He doesn't have a heart blockage. He has a buildup of amyloid proteins in his heart."

"Go do a biopsy to confirm," House told her.

She nodded and left.

House lay on the examination table in Exam Room One, twirling his cane. He heard the door open and he lifted his head. Jeanna entered and leaned against the counter.

"You look tired," he commented, lying back and continuing to spin his cane.

"He tested positive for amyloid cardiopathy. I started him on mephalan and dexamethasone," she informed him. Glancing around the empty room, she sighed. "Shouldn't you have a patient in here?"

"Nope. Hiding from Cuddy."

"And this is the last place she would look for you. You are a cunning man."

"You love that about me."

She laughed.

"You know," he commented, "you never answered my question."

She feigned surprise, even though she knew what he was referring to. "You ask so many questions. It's hard to remember which one you're talking about."

"Why do you love me? I punish you. You're miserable. You feel guilty. So, why do you love me?"

Slowly, she walked toward him. He stopped spinning his cane and turned his head to look at her.

"I didn't want to fall in love with you. You're an arrogant, ego maniacal narcissist. I fell in love with you anyway. You punish me even though I saved your life. And, yes, I do feel guilty. But, I made promises to you. I promised to love you in sickness and in health. In good times and in bad." She leaned over him. "I keep my promises. So, you can torture me and punish me all you want. I'm not going anywhere." She paused. "I can't live without you," she whispered. "So, now you have some more ammunition to use against me."

"I want to forgive you," he told her.

"But you can't," she told him.

Slowly, he sat up, swinging his legs over the table. Tapping his cane on the floor, he squinted and looked out the window into the waiting area. He sighed and looked at her. "I love you, but no, I can't forgive you. Not yet."

She rubbed his right thigh. "Then I'll wait until you can," she told him.

He nodded. Sliding down from the table, he slipped his arm around her waist. "You know," he began, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes, "endorphins help relieve chronic pain."

"Really?" she laughed. "Well, do you want me to cut you, hit you or would you prefer the old fashioned treatment?"

Pursing his lips, he squinted at the ceiling. "Is the old fashioned treatment a new euphemism for sex?"

"Yeah," she laughed.

"The old fashioned treatment, then. The old ways are best."


End file.
